


Tumblr Prompts - The Child of Frost and Flame

by rightsidethru



Series: The Child of Frost and Flame [5]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Alternate Universe - Magic, Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Gen, Japanese Mythology & Folklore, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Post Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Professor!Peter Hale, Slytherin!Stiles, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2017-10-10
Packaged: 2019-01-10 23:36:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12310260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rightsidethru/pseuds/rightsidethru
Summary: Prompts received at my Tumblr, rightsidethru, forThe Child of Frost and Flame.





	1. Quiet Afternoons - Stiles, Albus, and Scorpius

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: _I don't know if you accept Tumblr prompt requests for ficlets for the your Steter Harry Potter Alternate Universe series. If you do can you write something fluffy and sweet with Stiles, Albus, and Scorpius? Ty!_
> 
> *
> 
> Not quite as fluffy and sweet as I had originally intended, buuut... well, _Stiles_.
> 
> This takes place shortly/several weeks after _Leaping Without Looking (Safety Nets)_.
> 
> Apologies for any mistakes. I wrote it on my phone while helping the Dadboss with Reefapalooza (wherein I was desperate for any type of distraction from corals, corals, and more corals).

Autumn was still in full force in Scotland: leaves yellowing everywhere and the air crisp and cool, the bite of frost a promise not yet made good on. With the sun warm upon his face, Stiles could happily spend hours beneath the oak tree that grew at the farthest edge of the school grounds.

Stiles’ shadows, his ‘ducklings,’ too, had taken to joining him—

The press of Scorpius’ head was heavy on Stiles’ shoulder, dead weight as the first year’s steady breaths slowly gave way to soft, barely heard snores. The press of another body against the elder’s side was one that the transfer had grown unused to—familiar, comfortable touching left behind with Scott in America—and while this wasn’t _quite_ the same... it was still good. Different. But good.

Stiles used the flat plane of the boy’s back as a bookstand, propping the current text he had liberated from the Restricted Section on the meat of a shoulder to turn each page with a leisure not often felt: but the weather was still warm, the skies still clear, and Scorpius was a steadying presence in the empty loneliness that had begun to creep up on the sixth year since he had started Hogwarts.

A little bit off to the side, Albus made a low, borderline-snarling sound of frustration—most certainly adopted from his godbrother—and shoved his Charms textbook off of his lap in a dramatic gesture of his bad mood, temper winning in this particular case. Curious at what had prompted such an angry reaction, Stiles quirked an eyebrow at the fuming pre-teen, closing his own book and using a finger as a bookmark. 

“I take it that you’re in need of some help?” the older student asked, gesturing towards the haphazardly discarded book. “Unless you’re attempting to set fire to your book through dirty looks alone as an extra credit experiment for one of your classes—in which case: as you were, Al.”

The first year silently stewed in his frustration for a moment or two longer before finally sighing, tension and frustration both slipping from his frame as the air expelled from his lungs. “...I can’t get the stupid spell to work,” the green-eyed boy admitted, tone dejected. “I’ve tried over and over again—and I’ve followed the instructions in the book word for word—but... nothing. It’s not working. What am I doing wrong, Stiles??”

Amber eyes went vague in contemplation and the calloused pad of Stiles’ thumb rubbed absently over the spine of his tome as he thought. Eventually, the older Slytherin spoke: “Show me.”

Albus stiffened at the order, cheeks dusting a light pink at the thought of having to perform a spell he already _knew_ he’d fail at for the transfer student who had already done so much for him. For Scorpius, too. “But...”

“But I can’t see what’s going wonky for you if you don’t show me, Albus,” Stiles gently explained as the youngest Potter son averted his gaze from the elder’s whiskey-hued one. “I need you to do the spell for me.”

It was humiliating: knowing that Stiles regularly read more adult, more complex material on a regular basis, sometimes switching between the texts when the fancy arose for the elder... and here Albus was, struggling to perform the third spell that first years learned, right after _Point Me_.

“ _Wingardium Leviosa!_ ” Albus enunciated clearly, words followed through with a perfectly executed swish-and-flick: the Potter son had grown up on stories of his dad and Uncle Ron and Aunt Hermione’s adventures at Hogwarts, handed out as a necessary staple of childhood—a different sort of bread and butter to live off of. The Troll Incident was an oft-told story in both households, playful jibes of _It's LeviOsa, not LevioSA!_ repeated enough times over the years to remind Albus of the importance of correct pronunciation.

The first year held his breath, staring down with hidden, restrained hope at the leaf he had pointed his wand at: wanting, so very much, for the spell to work this time.

It shouldn’t have come as a disappointment—should have been expected at this point—when the leaf remained still and lifeless upon the ground.

The sound that Albus made in answer was hurt, broken and frustrated and filled with an ocean’s amount of disappointment—in himself, in the importance of the stories tol, in the spell. In his magic. And, as Albus stared despondently down at the dead, dried out life, twist of his mouth unhappy and dissatisfied, Scorpius finally stirred, as if summoned by his best friend’s distress.

“What’d I miss?” the blond boy asked and rubbed at a silvery-grey eye, hiding a yawn behind a proprierty hand. The other first year’s embarrassed flush deepened at the increase of his audience and didn’t answer.

Figuring that a multiple use lesson could always be put to well-use, Stiles gently shushed Scorpius—to which the boy comfortably curled back up against his lankier frame—and turned his attention back to Albus, amber gaze thoughtful as he considered the boy’s potential problem. “How much of your magic did you put into the spell?” the sixth year Slytherin eventually asked aloud as he chewed on a corner of his lower lip.

“...what do you mean?” Albus asked in turn, confusion blatant upon his face. “You just say the word, do the gesture—and voila, _magic_!”

 _Voila, magic! —are **all** of the schools teaching students this, not just Hogwarts and Ilvermorny?_ Stiles asked himself for a long moment or two, eventually blinking and shaking his head at both himself and Albus commentary. Something to dwell upon later; for now: the sixth year gestured towards Albus’ wand. “Put that down, Al, you won’t need it for right now. I’ll help you with the spell.”

Albus stiffened at the request to put his wand away—how was he supposed to do magic with no wand?—and Scorpius inhaled sharply, softly, also tensing against Stiles’ side to look up at the older student with luminously wide eyes, anger simmering in their clear depths—a warning, useless as it would have been, to not trick Albus or betray his best friend’s trust.

“But—“ Albus protested.

“Wand. Away,” Stiles ordered once more, tone unrelenting.

The order was a confusing one for the first year, but Stiles hadn’t yet led Albus wrong—not from the moment he had stepped into the abandoned classroom and gotten the other students to leave him alone. Still, though, the Potter son’s movements held a trace of wariness as he set aside his wand, Scorpius watching avidly—silently—all the while. Once the elevdn year-old’s wand was out of reach, Stiles’ expression turned contemplative for a moment before asking: “What’s the one spell that you can always do, one hundred percent of the time; something you don’t even have to _think_ about as the words leave your mouth?”

Albus grimaced at that, shooting Scorpius a sidelong look. “... _Lumos_.”

Stiles just nodded at that, as if he wasn’t surprised by Albus’ answer. “Okay, we can work with that. Now, I need you to close your eyes for me, Al. Then follow my instructions.”

Trepedation heavy in the pit of his stomach, Albus still held on to his new, shaky faith in the older student and allowed his eyes to fall closed; ignoring, too, the way that Scorpius’ gaze had sharpened as it had focused upon him.

“Now breathe deep. Hold it. Hold it. Now let it go, Al, slow and steady. Again: inhale. Hold it... then let it go,” Stiles murmured into the bubble of silence that had surrounded them for hours, providing a sort of intimacy that had coaxed the two younger boys into relaxing around their elder Housemate; as Stiles spoke, his words dipped lower, slowing as Albus unconsciously followed after. It wasn’t long at all before the boy’s chest rose and fell steadily, as regular as the tide. “Now, I want you to focus a little bit inwards. Can you do that for me, Al?”

“...yes...” the boy whispered, and Scorpius’ fingers curled tightly in Stiles’ robe that he had been using as both blanket and pillow.

Ignoring the shrewd, frost-kissed stare that had shifted to settle upon him now, the Slytherin transfer continued: “As you look, you’ll notice a soft of heavy weight in your chest. It’s deep—but it’s there, warm and pulsing softly and familiar: like family; like coming home. Did you find it?”

Albus didn’t verbally answer Stiles’ question, but he didn’t need to; a beautific, ecstatic smile tugged his mouth upwards and a glow began to seep through the layers of the first year’s clothing, situated right over the center of Albus’ chest. Gold and shimmering, the glow seemed to throb in time with every beat of Albus’ heart.

“...good, Al. You’re doing amazing; so good. Now, I want you to pull away a small strand of that shining weight—just a small one, a thread, nothing more, all right?—and think about light as you do it. Sun light, fire light, lamp light, moon light: any and all types of _light_ , a type of beacon to see in the darkest of night. Now, here’s the most important—the difficult—part, Al. _Want it._ Want it to burn away the shadows, to offer security when you’re alone and in the dark. _Want_ that steady beacon to guide you home.”

Scorpius gasped suddenly, shock stiffening his body as he abruptly jerked away from Stiles. His grey eyes were wide with denial, with disbelief. “No,” the pureblood child hissed, shaking his head jerkily—like a puppet whose strings had been abruptly cut. “ _No._ That’s supposed—it’s supposed to be _impossible_.”

Stiles ignored him for the moment, instead choosing to remain focused on Albus. “Open your eyes now, Al.”

Lashes slowly lifted over forest-green eyes—eyes that widened and widened further until white showed completely around that vivid color. “Wh-what?” Albus stuttered, gaping at the perfectly conjured—wandless—ball of light, of _Lumos_ , that hovered in the air before him. It was strongly cast, offering up a steady light that chased away the shadows that had slowly begun stretching across their hidey-hole.

“Magic isn’t just waving a wand and muttering nonsense words in a dead language,” Stiles began and both boys’ gazes shot to him. “Visualization’s a part of it, and it’s necessary sometimes. But the heart of _doing_ magic? It’s knowing your core—and _intent_.”

—the memory of the first time he used his magic, knowingly and with intent, was still one that had always remained vivid for Stiles: the situation had been traumatic, terrifying, and he could still remember the burning within his mother’s eyes—but, _oh_ , the _magic_. That wonder had never left him.

The older student inclined his head towards Albus’ wand. “Now. Try _Wingardium Leviosa_ again.”

Shakily, the boy reached for it once again, tongue wetting his lips nervously as he kept one eye on the little ball of light that hadn’t yet faded away.

With Albus distracted by trying again at the spell that had previously given him so much difficulty, Stiles finally turned his full attention to Scorpius, eyebrow lifted in inquiry.

(Knowing the hang-ups that the Malfoy heir had about what he had managed to do—and _why_ , as well—but enough of a bastard to make the blond boy spell it out aloud.)

“...that shouldn’t have been possible,” Scorpius whispered, soft enough for Albus to not hear the words—gaze, even now, going shrewd and sharp once more, ever the pureblood heir no matter the leniency Draco Malfoy gave to his son and heir. “No one—the teachings—I don’t _understand_...”

The smile that Stiles offered in turn was crooked and sharp, shadows pulsing briefly around them—despite the _Lumos_ still hovering in the air—before fading away to the pinpricks from before.

“ _Magic_ ,” the older Slytherin answered in turn, fingers wiggling mockingly.

Scorpius’ mouth twisted unhappily at the lack of a genuine reply, silver gaze still too knowing for Stiles’ liking—but, after a long moment of silence between the both of them, the blond eleven year-old shifted closer once more and settled against his Housemate’s side.

Stiles’ hand came up, cupping over the nape of Scorpius’ neck as Albus’ surprised, delighted laughter filled the bolthole when his leaf finally took flight, zooming happily through the air.

Different from how things used to be in America.

But yes—still good.


	2. Alabaster Throat - Stiles and Peter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [brandileeder](https://brandileeder.tumblr.com) asked: _Hi! I just read your first prompt from The Child of Frost and Flame, and I was wondering if you could write a little something about stiles and peter? literally just them bonding in anyway, but I will NEVER say no to cuddling and scenting???_
> 
> *
> 
> I'm sorry for hurting them first, buuuuuut... you _do_ still get the cuddling and scenting? (And thank you for the prompt!  <3)
> 
> Takes place after _Down Down Down, Into the Depths I Go_.
> 
> Apologies for any continued mistakes. The internet is down at the house, so I'm writing and posting everything on my phone. (Yes, I'm crazy. XD;;)

Lazy Saturday nights were best spent alone, curled up in a distant corner of the Hogwarts Library with one of the many texts borrowed from the Restricted Library that Stiles typically had squirreled away in his backpack at any given time. Rainy evenings were even better because _those_ nights meant that most of the student body holed up in their House’s common rooms, camped out in front of the fireplaces as they socialized with friends and idly poked at school work.

The lack of student presence meant that the Library was quieter than usual, book pages whispering throughout the various aisles as the texts shuddered and reassembled themselves upon the shelves—sentient in a way that most of the students didn’t realize and that Stiles enjoyed watching: quietly, unassumingly voyeuristic.

He was in the middle of leaning over the armrest of his reading chair, reaching for his backpack to pull out a new text to page through, when thick, velvet fur brushed against the American’s knuckles; he paused at the touch, stilling instantly, and lifted his gaze towards the nearest shadows to meet a pair of tarnished-silver eyes. The nogitsune grinned at the dark-haired teen, teeth gleaming with a predator’s pearlescent threat from within the darkness: used to the fox’s particular brand of tricks and fun, Stiles quirked a silent, inquiring eyebrow.

“The wolf wasn’t at dinner today,” Kuugeki began, tone of voice light enough—but the amber-eyed teen _knew_ the nogitsune, knew the twists and turns its mind typically took, and that marrow-deep knowledge had him freezing completely, barely breathing, already knowing that what was to come would be ugly and painful (and hurt all that much more because all Stiles had truly wanted was to enjoy a quiet, uninterrupted evening to himself in the Library).

“That isn’t so unusual. Maybe he took the meal in his rooms,” the boy countered easily enough, still waiting for the bludgeon that the nogitsune hadn’t yet dealt.

It tilted its head to one side, gesture surprisingly human-like despite the vulpine smile still adorning its mouth, and the field fox slunk from the shadows to settle its weight against its summoner’s shins. “True,” it admitted, glancing sidelong up at Stiles, gaze eerie in the twilight of the gargantuan room. “But he was not there _this_ night because it’s an anniversary.”

“…of what?”

“His Pack’s deaths.”

++

It was always such an _odd_ , hair-prickling feeling the times that Kuugeki wrapped Stiles in shadow and starlight, guiding the teen through the there- _not-there_ realm that had been its home from the moment that Inari Ookami turned its face and blessing away from the yako. Despite the discomfort and unsettling feeling, however, Stiles knew that the convenience more than made up for everything else.

They made their way through the shadowy realm, journey thankfully short, and it was only minutes instead of the typical hours later that a tear appeared in one of the midnight-dark shadows—and Stiles stepped through.

The amber-eyed teen appeared in a tucked away, partially hidden alcove in Peter’s sitting room, blocked from most of the rest of the space by an intricately embroidered partition; the artwork looked Russian, done in varying shades of blues and grays and blacks, painting a scene where a pack of wolves chased after a fleeing hunter on horseback, death in the wolves’ eyes. Stiles quirked a small smile at seeing it: both amused and unsurprised, knowing full well how easily the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor was able to hide the predator beneath the seemingly human skin-suit.

Stiles eased around the partition, attention almost immediately drawn to the armchair set off to the corner of the fireplace. His professor sat sprawled within the chair, expression closed off but eyes burning crimson as Peter sipped absently at a tumbler of firewhiskey—so lost in thought and memory and tragedy that the Alpha werewolf didn’t notice the Slytherin teen’s sudden arrival.

The expression upon Peter’s face was familiar enough to the one that Stiles’ dad got when the Auror began thinking against his deceased wife once again, pain and longing and a morbid sort of _why couldn’t I have gone, too_ that he would have denied aloud if the boy was ever willing to call him on it—but so, too, there remained a carefully masked kernel of rage, still burning hot enough even years later that the fury blazed within the ‘wolf’s gaze.

Stiles made his way silently closer, steps careful as he maneuvered around his professor’s belongings. It was nothing more than a moment or two in time, a skipped heartbeat, before the teen settled himself at Peter’s feet, kneeling between the older man’s thighs as he stared up at the older man with a carefully neutral, amber gaze.

He remained silent, even as Peter’s attention slowly shifted onto his form, awareness bleeding back into the werewolf’s gaze little by little; when the professor’s attention settled completely upon Stiles’ presence, stirring slightly within the armchair, the teen reached up to twine his fingers through the short hairs at the base of Peter’s skull; his fingernails raked gently over the ‘wolf’s scalp, carefully non-threatening even as his grip shifted to cup over the older man’s nape.

“Shhh,” the teen murmured, low and soothing: a croon that echoed and called to something veiled within the ‘wolf’s soul. The glass tumbled from nerveless fingers, and Peter followed that steady pressure down down _down_ until he was curling around Stiles’ body, arms secure around the teen’s waist as the Alpha’s face burrowed into the graceful, alabaster curve of the boy’s throat.

Purr or growl or snarl or broken sob, a rumbling sound slipped past his lips, deep enough to rattle bones, and Stiles again gently shushed the werewolf as he guided the weight of Peter’s body closer still.

The ‘wolf’s eyes fell shut as he tried to ignore the feeling of disconnect, of broken, bloody Pack bones that always hurt _so much more_ this day, no matter how much they already _ached_ day after day after day—his eyes closed and Peter _breathed_.

Ozone and musk and the wild sort of freedom that the world cried out with before a lightning storm broke upon the earth, thunderclap echoing throughout the skies: of _home_ and boy and the shadowy sort of darkness that slid through time and space, velvet-soft but so much more dangerous because of its gentleness—something, too, that caught and held the feral predator that lurked within Peter’s soul, hooking tethers deep and drawing it out and to the surface and ringing _mine mine mine_.

The rumble deepened, going an octave lower, and Peter shifted within Stiles’ embrace to run his cheek and chin against the pale column of the teen’s throat. Red, irritated skin bloomed beneath his stubble, blushing at the attention, and the twining of their individual scents, one layered over the other, was something that could easily become addicting.

Peter _breathed_ and tightened his hold around Stiles’ waist and buried his nose in the dark brown hair at the boy’s temple, allowing his ‘wolf to finally just… settle and quiet and _be_.

“Shhh… I’ve got you. _I’ve got you._ ”

Stiles’ fingers were a steadying, constant pressure over the nape of the Alpha’s neck.

And Peter _breathed_.

++

 _I wanna live with you_  
_Even when we're ghosts_  
_'Cause you were always there for me_  
_When I needed you most_  
“Say You Won’t Let Go” - James Arthur


End file.
